Grief
by SalvaVeritate
Summary: What about me? Do you remember? Do you still remember?


**Blahblahblah, I don't own Cruel Intentions. blahblahblahblah...**

* * *

_Tiptoe to your room  
A starlight in the gloom  
I only dream of you_

-Sing for Absolution by Muse

Sometimes, I see you.

Just sometimes.

It used to be all the time. All I had to do was say your name and you would pop your head into my room. You would look annoyed and say my name in the same tone a brother would say 'Now what do you want?' to his little sister. A _"Kaaaaa-thryn,"_ Tired. Sick of me? Maybe just a little. Maybe not really. Who knows at this point? Can you clarify that? No. Not really, unless corpses can talk. You are (were?) a man whose capabilities exceeded expectations and not even you can clear things up at this point.

Like right now. You're seated across the bed. You're watching me and I'm trying very hard not to let you know that I know you're watching. I'm flipping through a magazine. I flip through until I realize that it is the same magazine you left in my room a few months ago. I flip through until I see her face looking up at me, bathed in that virginal glow. I tear it out and keep on tearing and tearing and tearing and her face disappeared and became confetti.

What's wrong with you why don't you ever talk why do you just keep watching me like that what's wrong Sebastian tell me what's wrong what do you want from me?

You say,

Nothing.

You just keep looking at me. Why so serious? Why so sad, brother?

Is it the suspicious bruises on the inside of my arm? Prick prick prick little needles poor skin poor Kathryn? Is it my sore cunt, raw and red from attempting to fill what I can only describe as a never ending hunger for carnal pleasure? Poor torn cunt, alleviate the pain, repair the skin with your tongue please do it please oh please you're the only one who could do it make it okay so I can get my brains fucked out again and again and again just get pounded so hard because I need it I need it so much you have no idea. But then, it is like, it is just like drinking water with a hole in my throat. The liquid cools my tongue and it feels so good but the water just comes out of that hole filled with blood and I am thirsty all over again. When I try to cover the hole, another one opens and another and another and another until I am riddled with holes riddled with the realization of empty spaces maybe if you take a peek into the hole in my throat you won't see a lot of things. No organs maybe just shiny pretty things on the inside because I am supposed to be special, remember?

Do you?

Do you

Remember?

Please stop that, I tell you. Please stop looking at me like that.

Your mouth remains shut. Talk please talk please smirk please do anything apart from what you're doing now because it's like you're sitting there you're not even moving that much your eyes are open and you're blinking but at the same time you look, well, dead.

Looking at you like that? Your eyebrows rise just a bit. A little bittle bittle, like what we used to say when we were children. When your father asked you if you used your crayons to draw on the drab beige wallpaper my mother had picked. And your little fingers were just a hair's-breadth away from each other and I was beside you but I was using my crayons for my coloring book.

You said,

A little bittle bittle. You had trouble talking. You had trouble enunciating then. It's truly a wonder that you turned out to be so articulate.

Like that please stop, Sebastian.

You hold out your hand. You're wearing the suit we buried you in. I picked that suit for you. While Annette was holed up in her room being pathetic, I fixed everything for you. At the end of the day, I still made sure you were taken care of. I made sure you didn't look like a drag queen in case people wanted one last look. Not too much make up, please. To cover the postmortem bruises. Too much will make you look like a girl. A very pretty girl, but a girl nonetheless. You may have loved women but I don't think you loved them so much that you wanted to be buried looking like one.

Long thick fingers. Blunt nails. Very clean. You hold your hand out to me and your mouth opens just a little.

When we were little, you told me about Orpheus and Eurydice. You had these thick plastic glasses on and they made you look like a dork (I can finally admit this now, though at the time, when we were nine, your ego was very fragile and I could have damaged you for life had I admitted that those glasses made your eyes look like ping-pong balls). You said he had gone to the Underworld to bring her back, and that he wasn't supposed to look at her, that he was never supposed to see her for the duration of their trip. But the idiot, the impatient idiot, he couldn't stand it. He was scared that she wasn't there so he had to make sure.

He looked.

And she was gone.

And he never got her back.

The lesson there, you said importantly, pushing your thick black Coke bottle glasses up the bridge of your nose. Is to just be a little patient. You know, you could use a little patience every now and then, Kathryn.

To which I replied,

You're a moron.

Then you laughed, your big blue ping-pong ball eyes were smiling too. You reached across the table and your fingers brushed against my cheek. They warmed me. Little warm flesh-sticks.

Then you, big blue bug eyed dork, possessed with uncharacteristic bravery, you kissed me.

If it were us, you said. Your breath smelled like peppermint. I'd be more patient. Bringing you back with me takes time, but I'll do it, you know. I'll bring you back. I don't care how long it takes. I'll wait for you.

Well what if I met another guy down there, inquired eight year old me. And I liked him more than I liked you? And I didn't want to come with you, huh? What then, genius?

You kissed me again. Smack right there on my mouth, and it wasn't a quick peck either. You didn't try to slip me the tongue or anything (come on, we were kids), but it was just our lips against each other and the air we exhaled felt hot as it hit our upper lip.

The guys down there are ugly. Besides,

Then you gave me this geeky smile. Oh, yes. I had seen you at your worst, even before you were snatching panties from poor lovestruck debutantes.

I am your Orpheus, you declared. You stupid little dork.

What exactly does that mean? When I die you'll resurrect me?

Yes,

How do you plan on doing that?

I don't know, you shrugged. That's why I don't want you to die.

That barely makes sense.

You grinned.

So what does this mean now? I'm supposed to be the one to put you back together put flesh and soul stitch them up so they'd never separate because you're the one who's dead? I thought Orpheus was the one who lived?

You've gotten your stories all mixed up, you know.

Remember?

Don't you remember anymore?

I thought I was going down first?

You're still holding out your hand.

You're not real. If I touch you, I touch nothing but air.

Then you shrug and place your hand on the armrest. You glance at the clock, then at the photocopied journal on my desk.

Your eyebrows knit together. I'm sorry, Kathryn. Your eyes say.

A lot of good that does now, doesn't it?

You lick your lips and the need the urge the desire just comes crashing into me these powerful waves of longing they topple me I lose my balance I lose my everything and it's like, it's just like,

Orpheus is the one who dies and Eurydice is the one who is trying to bring him back and they are at that point when she is overcome by this incredible need to have a piece of him, just a little piece to go on with for the rest of the trip she can't bear it the agony of him being there and not having him so please, she begs, please just a bit just a little bittle bittle.

I come closer and I hold out my hand and you hold out yours and you hold my gaze and we come closer closer closer maybe if I could have just a piece of you something of you—

We touch.

But not really.

Because the moment we do,

You are gone.

I am alone.

Until:

Knock knock knocking.

Come in,

Blaine.

He opens the door.

He looks at me.

Me:

Face worn out, mask peeling, perfect skin sliced by the loss I don't speak of. Bruises. Empty bottles. Half empty glasses (yes, I am a half-empty-glass kind of girl). Open journal with the ink blurred by water stains.

We look at each other, him and I.

I just need a little something of my poor Orpheus.

Slowly blinking,

The grief ravages me.

I pull my nightgown over my head.

And plead with my eyes.

Please make it better,

Please just this once.

We're the only ones who knew him.

Really knew him.

The only ones left.

If we could just have this.

We could have him back.

A beat.

A pause.

Blaine's eyes droop. His shoulders slump.

I don't know if I can, he whispers. I… I want to, but I'm not sure if I _can_.

So I stand up. I pull his hand, loving that hand, thankful for the existence of that hand. The pulse it feels so steady, so reliable, so alive.

We can, I unbuckle his belt his jeans they fall.

We just think of him.

It works. All we do is think of you. You cock sucking asshole. You come alive between us, more alive than ever your face your voice how you spoke, your dick, your hands your tongue we resurrect you with our sex our open mouth kisses our searching fingers. We both imagine.

Blaine never got to know for real what it was like,

because you never switched teams.

I never got to know for real what it was like,

because you switched to a different kind of team.

One that encouraged,

bright and sunny days

laughter

sun kissed hair

whispers of love

promises of a new beginning.

What about me?

Do you remember?

Do you still remember?

Your Eurydice?

I was supposed to go first,

you were supposed to run after me

wrap my soul with silk

dampened with tears

make sure I am safely behind you

you were supposed to

fuck me

and promise me

I would never share you

with anybody else

Ever.

we were supposed to

drink champagne from

each other's mouths

and turn our bodies

into something more

something that will

turn what we have

and what we are

into something

that will live

forever.

What is Annette doing now?

Crying

huddled up

poor Annette

poor dear

But me, here I am.

Here is my body,

sacrificing my shame.

Showing the pain

My cracked cunt

pierced skin

broken heart

With Blaine.

The only two people who really knew you.

The only two people who really--

Don't make me say it.

You know what I mean.

Come back

Come back

Come back

To us.

Come back

to

me.

* * *

A/N: Hmm.


End file.
